


Of Blackened Hands and Dreams in Sand

by veni



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF Kink Meme, Dreams, Emotionally Repressed, M/M, Mindfuck, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-15
Updated: 2012-06-15
Packaged: 2017-11-07 19:57:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veni/pseuds/veni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stannis is a man with a tight hold over himself, but even he cannot control his dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Blackened Hands and Dreams in Sand

**Author's Note:**

> Spawned from the asoiaf kinkmeme; the recipient wanted an "erotic dream involving Davos + masturbation the morning after," but of course I bungled it all up with emotional repression and Stannis being, well, Stannis. Enjoy.

The sea surrounding Dragonstone is a living thing, curling in on itself and crashing against the steep cliffs of the island with the fierceness of a drowned god. The sea wakes with the sun and roars with the moon, flaunting its dominance over the realm of man—even the thick walls of Dragonstone’s castle cannot silence its howls. On nights like this, with the sea at full force, it is easy to see how the quick flick of a rolling wave can capsize even the strongest ship with the most capable captain. It is easy to see how a man as skilled as Davos Seaworth can be lost.

 

Stannis had expected to lose men, dozens at least, hundreds or thousands if that damnable red god failed him—but not Davos. The quiet ex-smuggler had been an anchor for Stannis, a constant and reliable presence in his life for over a decade. To have him taken by the sea was infuriating; if the best smuggler (and one of the best sailors, no doubt) in the realm could not free himself from a watery grave, what hope did Stannis have?

 

He is powerless.

 

He is infuriated.

 

He is obsessed. Stannis takes to replaying the destruction of Blackwater in his mind night after night, past the crowing of the cock and well into the light of day. For his defeat he has no one to blame but himself, and the knowledge of his failure angers him beyond measure. At the urging of the court, Queen Selyse tries, once, to calm him. “Your Grace,” she simpers one morning, “you have not eaten well these last few days, and R’hollor knows you need your strength.” She lays a bony hand on his shoulder, and he jerks away as if burned. Her hand recoils, a look of hurt flashing across her ugly face.

 

 “What a king eats is his own concern,” he answers curtly. “You would do best to remember your place.” He rises and leaves without sparing her a glance. Selyse is left upset but not at all surprised; her husband has never been fond of womanly affection, so much so that the two sleep in separate chambers. As he storms off to his rooms, she leaves for her own; if he prefers to suffer in solitude, so be it.

 

Sleep eludes him. Or rather, he eludes sleep; his dreams are plagued with emerald flames, the wildfire licking at his face and burning him raw while he watches, impotent and afraid, as his men are cooked alive around him. Stannis wakes with the smell of death in his nose and sweat in his hair; _Death by fire is the purest death_ , he thinks, before vomiting into his basin. Sleep is not worth such torment.

 

But on this night, a week after the chaos at Blackwater Bay and after days with little food and less sleep, Stannis cannot help it—he falls, exhausted, into a deep and total slumber. And on this night, he dreams.

 

In his dream it is warm, and with growing dread he turns to face the wildfire, when he notices that for once, it is not a night dark and full of terrors that surrounds him, but a bright and shining day. He feels the sun on his face, hears the gulls in the air, and he is relieved. Then Stannis sees him, and his heart stops. The slim build, the warm eyes, the small pouch hanging under his neck—Stannis knows this man.

 

“Davos,” he chokes out, and he steps forward. In an instant the smuggler materializes in front of him, an honest smile framing his face. “Your Grace,” he says happily, “how may I serve you?” Davos stands close, far closer than he would in the waking world. Stannis does not notice (or perhaps he does not care); he is too busy trying to keep his emotions in check, to not embrace the man before him. In the bright light Davos dazzles like the sun, flickering in and out of existence like a mirage.

 

Stannis seizes him by the shoulder, squeezing in what he deems to be a reassuring manner. “It is good to see you, Davos,” he gets out, appropriately unsentimental. Stannis is momentarily proud of his self-control before Davos has the audacity to laugh. Seeing the annoyed look flit across his king’s face, Davos quickly stifles his mirth.

 

“I am sorry, Your Grace,” he grins, “but by the Seven, I did not expect to see you again.”

 

Stannis feels his mouth quirk; the smuggler’s joy is infectious. “I know the feeling, Ser.”

 

The two men begin to walk along the length of the beach, enjoying the pleasant warmth of the sun. Davos regales him with tales of his adventures at sea, and Stannis feels himself finally begin to relax; with Davos, away from his shrill wife and the heady presence of Melisandre, Stannis feels young again, content.

 

Soon they reach a large rock formation, boulders jutting out from the sand like fingers trying to claw themselves out of a pit. Davos stops walking, and Stannis settles at his side. “Do you see it, Your Grace?” Davos asks quietly.

 

Stannis stands ramrod straight, peering past his friend and into the mishmash of rocks. He does see it, or at least, he sees something: the center of the sand between the fingers, where the palm of the hand would rest, seems to darken. It blackens rapidly, rippling and bloating like a drowned corpse.

 

“Stay back, Davos,” he commands sharply. Stannis throws his arm out to stop him from stepping forward—unnecessary, of course, for Davos would never disobey him. But his precaution is for naught as the pit expands, slashing through the sand like a tidal wave, and in the blink of an eye it is under them, swallowing them up in its thick black ink and Stannis is choking on it and Davos is screaming in his ear and _he is dying, gods, he’s gone again, I’ve lost him again, I’ve--_

 

They crash gracelessly into the hard ground below, cushioned by the sand. Stannis tries to stand but falls dizzily to his feet; he hears someone rushing to his side, and then Davos’ hand—his good hand—is stroking his brow. The gentleness of the action disgusts him and Stannis tries to push him aside, succeeding only in sinking further into the kind ministrations of his faithful friend.

 

“Careful, Your Grace,” he advises, voice weak.

 

Stannis ignores him and continues to struggle. “What in the Seven Hells _was_ that?” he spits out. Finally, he manages to lean on Davos and prop himself up; underneath his hard grip, the smuggler shakes. He is ashen-faced, lip split with blood, pupils blown from the adrenaline of the fall. Davos is not a handsome man, but the bright sun and light wounds give him a raw look that Stannis is dimly aware could be considered appealing.

 

Their thighs touch in the sand, and he is uncomfortably warm. Stannis is feeling light-headed. As Davos watches him he realizes he has been staring; he turns his head sharply, causing another bout of dizziness. He tries to contort his features into what he hopes is a stony and fierce expression, to quell this weakness in his character, when Davos grabs him by his tunic and leans up, kissing him squarely on the mouth. Davos kisses like he sails—purposefully and with a good sense of direction. Stannis feels the man’s stubble scratch his face and his hand spasms at his side, clasping and unclasping, as if the force required to keep it from grasping out is physically painful.

 

Again the world falls out from under him, and Stannis wakes.

 

Alone in his bedroom chambers, far away from the sun and salt of his dream world, Stannis is cold. His lips tingle, and it takes a moment for him to recall why; he remembers light, and Davos, and then he—startled, he sits up, flushed scarlet. His sheets pool around him, and he glances down, letting out a low groan upon realizing the effects of this nightmare on his traitorous body. _I am far sicker than I thought_ , he thinks, before falling back into his bed. To dream of his friend in such a way is abominable. He curls on his side, refusing to touch himself; that vice is the realm of his brothers.

 

But the throbbing between his legs will not subside and Stannis remains painfully hard. These dreams alarm him, but in the haze of half-sleep he brushes his vague apprehension aside and deals with the problem at hand. Stannis grits his teeth and grasps himself, stroking efficiently and without finesse, not for pleasure but for the peace of being done with it all. He keeps his mind blank, does not think of Davos’ deft, capable hands or his trim waist. Davos is a good man, an honorable man, and Stannis will not dishonor him in this way. The force of his conclusion ripples through him and he finishes, shuddering like a boy.

 

Stannis lays awake until dawn, mourning his smuggler but cursing his ghost.


End file.
